Chris and his older brothers, Matt and Nick, were your father’s most trusted knights. After the queen’s murder, the king’s caution had hardened into iron. He appointed Chris as your personal guard, ensuring he was always near.

Now, you sat on the throne. Your father, the king, occupied the larger seat beside yours. His gaze was stern.

At the massive doors, Chris stood, his hand resting near his sword hilt. Matt and Nick flanked him, their presence steady, their eyes sweeping every corner of the hall.

The quiet stretched—until the doors groaned open. A figure stepped into the hall, cloaked in travel-stained fabric. The echo of their boots carried through the vaulted chamber.

Chris’s hand immediately shifted to the hilt of his sword, his jaw tightening.

The cloaked figure raised their hands slowly, palms open. “I mean no harm. My lord… my king,” they said, bowing their head toward your father, “I beg you to end this war before it destroys us all.”

Your father leaned forward slightly, his voice gravel-edged with authority. “You dare walk into my hall after your men raided my villages, and speak of peace? Tell me—why should I not have you executed where you stand?”

The intruder’s breath hitched. “Because if you do, the war will burn hotter. My death will not bring you justice—it will only bring more men seeking justice for your wrong doings."

A long silence followed. Chris glanced back at you, his expression tight with concern, as if seeking your unspoken thoughts. Nick shifted his stance near the door, whilst Matt cleared his throat to speak. “My king,” Matt murmured, respectful but firm, “it could be a trap. We shouldn’t—”

“Silence,” the king barked, cutting him off. His gaze stayed locked on the intruder.